


Rider on the Storm

by AbsurdistBourbon



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Gen or Pre-Slash, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-22
Updated: 2019-09-22
Packaged: 2020-10-26 03:10:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20735279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AbsurdistBourbon/pseuds/AbsurdistBourbon
Summary: When MacLeod encounters Methos again several years after TB/NTB, he wishes to recapture their old friendship.





	Rider on the Storm

**Author's Note:**

> DM/M pre-slash; perhaps a touch of angst. 
> 
> I wrote this ages ago and originally posted it over on hlfiction.net under a different name. Unbeta'd.

Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod stood at the window and watched the sunset. The colors in the sky reached out and caught fire in the branches of the trees. It would be a cool, crisp evening; perhaps he should start a fire. Memory caught up with him - memories of fireplaces past, the warm conversation of friends, drinks in their hands, stories in the air. Friends like Joe. Amanda. Connor. Richie. Tessa.  
  
And Methos.  
  
Amanda kept in touch, breezing through every few months or sending postcards, though she sounded recently like she had her hands full with that new cop of hers. Robert and Gina he'd seen last summer; a chance intersection of a business trip and their extended honeymoon. He hadn't heard much from Connor, but that was hardly unusual, Connor kept a low profile lately. Joe he saw several times a week. His beloved dead he carried with him in his heart: Fitz in a darkened pub many years ago, a touch of lace at his wrists, removing his inevitable pipe from between his teeth and waving it around as he made a point, only to break off, dazzled, as a young lady walked by. Ritchie more recently, all brazen swagger and boyish smiles.  
  
But Methos.  
  
He hadn't seen Methos since that night, the night when he tried to let each of his friends know how much they meant to him with the memory of a dream still weighing him down. Amanda and Joe were easy to talk to, but Methos - Duncan cursed himself. Why did his tongue get so tripped up when he had tried to tell Methos? He'd spoken wrong, his words fell flat, and he knew how big a mistake he'd made when the next week it became clear that Methos was gone. Two years later, and neither he nor Joe had heard anything from the old man; Duncan hadn't wanted to ask if the Watcher network had turned up any sightings, as his use of Joe for the information collected by the Watchers had been a touchy subject between them in the past.  
  
He wished he could see Methos again, listen to his stories - always blends of truth and outrageous lies, and the unspoken challenge to untangle the two - have Methos look at him with that mix of malevolence and affection as he pushed MacLeod to consider the unthinkable. To just sit and be with Methos.  
  
When had it happened? When had he reconciled the Methos of the present with the myriad facets of the Methos of the past? Did it matter? Not really; he had learned that life was too short, even for an Immortal. All that mattered was that he missed Methos.  
  
  
  
********  
  
  
  
The last gleam of orange light had faded by the time Adam Pierson left the restaurant. As he drove, he reviewed the day. Making the rounds of the department, answering the questions of the faculty, meeting the students. Giving the colloquium; answering more questions - who was that professor who cross-examined you like a lawyer, spitting out question after question? A proper wining-and-dining, the department chair affable and full of sparkling conversation. He must have given a good impression. Maybe there was a chance at the position - maybe he should go talk to -  
  
He found himself sitting in the rental car, gazing at the solid brick building as it rose above him into the darkness. He turned off the ignition. There was a time when he'd have gleefully walked into the building, his heart light and his thoughts dancing in anticipation of the companionship that awaited him. Stories, and arguments, and beer. Sometimes arguments about beer. And laughter. Shining, laughing eyes and a ready smile.  
  
A flash of memory cut across his vision - walking across the loft; "Mac, something's come up -"; a rattle of the elevator; "you don't know me!"; fleeing down those stairs as they returned to swallow him, to drag him down into the madness and fury of thousands of years past - the dead past and the recent past - the last time he walked through that door.  
  
And more recently? "I don't know who or what you are." Only the person who saved your head. Again.  
  
Weariness overcame him. This was not a battle he was prepared to fight. Not tonight. Retreat and choose a stronger position. Grow stronger. Let Adam Pierson live another day.  
  
  
  
Upstairs, Duncan MacLeod raised his head as he heard a car start and pull out of the alleyway below, then lowered his head to his book and his solitary fire.  
  
  
  
*********  
  
  
"Bonjour."  
  
"Is this Dr. Pierson? ...Adam! I have wonderful news!"  
  
"...and the official offer will be in the mail at the beginning of next week, but I wanted to let you know immediately."  
  
"Thank you very much, this is truly exciting. I look forward to discussing with you further when I get the letter."  
  
"So do I! Now, go out and celebrate."  
  
Adam Pierson laughed. "Oh, yes, indeed!"  
  
  
  
But when he hung up the phone, he sat and stared at it with tightened lips as the shadows lengthened.  
  
  
  
*******  
  
  
  
  
This time, the sky was low and grey. He sat behind the wheel and glared up at the brick building. Puffs of breath hung in the air as he mentally reviewed his fortifications. The next hour would be like a ball rolling quickly towards a pivot; a minuscule adjustment to the trajectory, and the balance tips one way, sending the ball ricocheting down one path - bridges would be burnt. Adam Pierson would die young in a tragic accident, and he would melt into the next persona waiting quietly in the wings far away from Seacouver, Scotland, or France. A tip in the other direction - well, a multitude of paths would open up at that point. Care would still have to be taken - don't get any hopes up, in case you make a mistake. He took a deep breath and opened the car door. As he stepped out, the first drops of rain began to fall.  
  
The Presence hit Duncan MacLeod as he was halfway across the room. With the ease of experience, a sword was in his hand and he stood by the door without conscious thought. He heard footsteps - familiar footsteps, could it be? - approach and stop just outside. He flung the door wide.  
  
Methos stood there. His face, his eyes said nothing, the corners of his mouth were tucked away: an impassive statue draped in a long black coat. MacLeod stared at him for a long moment. Methos' eyes dropped down to the sword, forgotten in MacLeod's hand.  
  
"Sorry!" He hastily set aside the sword. "Come in, come in!"  
  
Methos ducked his head slighly, but not before MacLeod thought he could see a very faint smile. He stepped in and removed his coat while MacLeod shut the door against the growing chill and increasing rain. "I see you brought good weather with you," Macleod said as he took the coat and hung it up.  
  
"I thought I'd arrive on the wings of the storm, as it were."  
  
MacLeod eyed the moisture beading on his guest's coat. "Rather drippy wings."  
  
The corner of Methos' mouth _definitely_ twitched that time.  
  
"Care for a drink?"  
  
"Yeah, thanks, whatever you're having."  
  
MacLeod busied himself with wine bottle and glasses, watching the other Immortal from the corner of his eye. Methos wandered restlessly around the room like an unsettled ghost, touching objects as he went as if to ground himself. He picked up a chess piece and held it in his long fingers, staring soberly at it. MacLeod bit back questions - where have you been? Why did you leave? - he had driven Methos away with his words before, he was not going to do it again. But all the unspoken pain between them made every conversation a minefield. What to say? What magic words would keep him here this time?  
  
"So."  
  
"So."  
  
A silence.  
  
Methos looked up from his examination of the white knight. "How are things?"  
  
MacLeod shrugged. "Nothing terribly exciting. I've closed down the gym, and gone back to selling antiques."  
  
"Ah."  
  
MacLeod cleared his throat and attempted an upbeat tone. ""How long are you in town for?"  
  
"So anxious to be rid of me? I'll have you know, there was a time when a guest was treated with honor and respect. The kids these days..."  
  
MacLeod grinned and held out the wineglass. "I'm a little short on fatted calves right now."  
  
"Hmmm." Methos eyed him but accepted the glass. A brief hesitation. "I was passing through, and my connecting flight was cancelled due to the approaching storm. They're putting me up at a hotel, but I thought I would drop by, say hello while I was here." It was MacLeod's turn to eye the other man doubtfully. A layover from where to where? Methos blinked innocently at MacLeod and finally settled on the couch. MacLeod sat in the chair opposite.  
  
"Are you going to let Joe know you are in town?" He paused his glass halfway to his mouth as he caught Methos' troubled expression, quickly smoothed away. "What is it?"  
  
Methos fiddled with the stem of his glass. "Joe knows exactly where I've been. Well, he did until a few days ago. They haven't caught back up with me yet. It seems my skills of misdirection aren't as rusty as I thought."  
  
MacLeod choked a little on his drink. "They've put a Watcher on you?"  
  
Methos raised an eyebrow. "In case you hadn't noticed, I did make a spectacle of myself quite a few times over the course of our acquaintance. They know Adam Pierson is Methos. They've known since -" he stopped.  
  
"Since Bordeaux?"  
  
Methos flinched very slightly, so slightly that MacLeod almost missed it. "Yeah, well, Cassandra has a big mouth."  
  
"Methos -" MacLeod started in spite of himself. The other man raised his chin and glared.  
  
"I can leave at any time you wish, MacLeod. There's a hotel I should be checking in to."  
  
MacLeod glanced at the window; the rain had picked up, and was beating against the glass. "Did you ever apologize to her?"  
  
Methos looked at him in horror. "Apologize? To Cassandra? I tortured her, she tried to cut off my head. I figure we're even."  
  
"It's hardly the same thing!"  
  
"From where you're sitting, it isn't. It wasn't your head."  
  
"Methos - "  
  
Methos put down his glass. "We can never get past that, can we? We can smile, and pretend, but it will still be festering away underneath every word. Forget I said anything. Forget I was here. I'll just go let myself out."  
  
MacLeod took a deep breath. "No, don't go. I'm sorry." He cursed himself - wasn't he going to try and *not* drive the older man away?  
  
Methos looked measuringly at him, his face closed. "Really, MacLeod, I think it is better for all concerned if I never see Cassandra again. She clearly has no interest in anything other than my head, and I have no intention of making it available to her."  
  
"I just thought - "  
  
"I know. You want to smooth things over, to give a measure of peace to Cassandra. You want to help her. It's in your nature."  
  
MacLeod spoke softly. "Actually, I was thinking of you."  
  
"What?" An emotion that MacLeod couldn't read flashed across Methos' face and was swiftly suppressed. Anger? Surprise?  
  
"You told me, in the churchyard,.. I thought if you talked to her, you could put it behind you."  
  
"MacLeod, I _had_ put it behind me. I had a long time to put it behind me. And then Kronos showed up. You wanted me to apologize? To gain some peace? What kind of peace, the quiet peace of the grave? You should know me better than that."  
  
"Your peace of mind..."  
  
The corners of Methos' mouth tightened, and his eyes glittered dangerously. "I told you once, I haven't felt guilt in centuries. Regrets, yes, guilt, no. Those are two different things. And if it comes down to it, Cassandra is certainly _not_ at the top of the list of regrets." His voice was biting, each word sharp.  
  
"Am I on that list of regrets?" The words slipped out before MacLeod could stop them. Methos narrowed his eyes. "Do you ever regret abandoning me when I needed you?"  
  
"When _you_ needed _me_?"  
  
"When I - When Richie died - " MacLeod couldn't help the accusing tone. Why am I doing this, he thought. Why must I dredge all of this up? Because, a quiet voice in his head said, you both need to understand. Don't let him leave before you've done so. Don't let him walk away with any misunderstandings between you this time.  
  
Methos had launched himself from the couch and was stalking around the room. "Oh yes," he hissed, "When _you_ killed _your_ student, you turned to me for judgement. Someone you'd been _perfectly_ happy sitting in judgment over not a few months previously, someone who you'd let know in no uncertain terms had no right to your friendship any more. And when my judgement didn't meet with your approval, when I didn't _cut_ off your _head_, _you_ were the one who left."  
  
He whirled around and glared at MacLeod, breathing heavily through his nose. "_How_ could you ask that of me? _Me_? After what I'd been forced to do?" MacLeod looked at him uncomprehendingly. ""_I_ killed my own student, MacLeod. I killed _Silas_. Where were you for me then? And where were you when my other brothers died? Oh yes, you were on the other side of the blade."  
  
Methos checked himself, and turned away. He stalked to the window and stood with his back to MacLeod. The only sound was Methos' labored breathing as he wrestled his emotions back under control.  
  
MacLeod was shaken. "Methos, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that."  
  
  
Silence.  
  
  
"Methos - "  
  
"The weather's getting worse. I think I'd better go." His voice was flat, emotionless. Cold. Empty.  
  
MacLeod approached the window. "It's not raining, it's sleeting. The roads will be a mess. Stay."  
  
Methos retreated across the room again. "I can deal with a little ice, Mac."  
  
"Why don't you stay here? You always used to."  
  
Methos gave a single, bitter laugh. "Because this visit is going so well. It's okay, I understand." He moved toward the door. MacLeod's heart felt tight. Don't let him leave.  
  
"Look, if we just _talk_ to each other..."  
  
"We can't even hold a civil conversation if no one else is around."  
  
"Please. Can we at least finish this conversation, now that we've finally started it?" He tried to put all of his heart in the entreaty. Methos turned and considered him a long moment, and then sighed. He moved back to the couch.  
  
"Just this once, MacLeod." Hooded eyes stared at him out of an emotionless mask, and MacLeod knew that he would have to be the one to continue talking. He sat in the chair opposite, took a deep breath, and stared at his hands, searching for the words.  
  
"Regrets. We were talking about regrets. I have regrets too, you know. I regret not being able to tell you properly - my life was shaped by the honor and chivalry of the past, but I've learned in recent years the value of change. I learned it from you, Methos." And then he winced, as he heard in his words the echo of the phrases that, somehow, had driven Methos from him the last time. Methos took a swift breath, and MacLeod could see him tense in preparation; he knew the man well enough now to recognize the tactic — lash out first, get your opponent unstable and unsettled so you can misdirect them. He hurried on to prevent whatever snide, hurtful comment Methos was about to unleash. “What I mean is…”  
  
Methos raised a suspicious eyebrow and interrupted. "What you mean, MacLeod, is that you went looking for a teacher, a glowing font of wisdom from the ages, after Darius died; you got me, and when I turned out not to be what you wanted, when I turned out to be even more bloodstained and battle-weary than you - you sorted through my words, and my dubious example, and picked out a lesson that would serve so you could reconcile my existence to your sense of cosmic order."  
  
“That's not it! Jesus, Methos, must everything be a spar with you?”  
  
Methos’ face twisted in a bitter, humorless smile. “You bring out the best in me, MacLeod.” He looked over at the other man. "I told you before, you know. I couldn't kill Kronos, because in order to judge him, I would have to judge myself. I couldn't kill you because who am I to judge? I killed a student, too. I left because you have an irritating habit of sweeping everyone along with you in your wake as you stride mightily by, and this time I wasn't going to fall in line with the plans of the conquering hero."  
  
"The circumstances were different - "  
  
"No! They were no different! Silas made his choices that ended in that submarine base; they were his choices to make. Ryan made his choices; he went to the track, knowing full well that either you were out of your head - and you'd tried to kill him in a similar situation - or that a dangerous power beyond your control was at work. Again, they were his choices to make. You made a mistake; I became an oathbreaker. How could I judge you? We both betrayed our children." He stopped, and shook his head. "I can't keep doing this. How can I explain myself to you? You won't understand; it isn't your nature. I should go. Have a nice life."  
  
MacLeod's thoughts were still reeling from the revelation of Methos' perspective of the Bordeaux affair, but he latched onto the last words. Wait a minute. Have a nice life? "You said you've been identified by the Watchers before. How did you drop out of sight those times?""  
  
Methos froze in the act of standing up. "What are you talking about, MacLeod?"  
  
"Why are you so eager to run out and drive around in this weather? The roads are covered in an inch of ice by now."  
  
"Don't do this, MacLeod. Let me go."  
  
"You intend to go out there and disappear, don't you?"  
  
Another hesitation, and then in a level tone as he slowly sank back to the couch. "It's a technique I've used before. When I've needed to cut all ties and start over."  
  
MacLeod stood across from Methos and considered him. Really considered him. Methos sat stiffly, his shoulders hunched slightly, braced as if waiting for a blow, staring at the glass on the table before him. He looked older somehow, more gaunt than the young-old grad student MacLeod remembered from their first meeting. He seemed very tired, and very alone. "Cut all ties, Methos?"  
  
The older Immortal studied his hands. "Sometimes it is for the best."  
  
Macleod crouched in front of Methos. Methos sighed wearily and and avoided MacLeod's gaze. "Do you regret knowing me, then? Am I one of those ties that must be cut?" He asked sadly. Methos' eyes snapped to MacLeod's face. The older man's face was expressionless, but MacLeod could see the war between the truth and expediency fighting in his eyes. Truth won out.  
  
"No. Never that." Methos said softly. He reached a hand towards MacLeod's face, and then caught himself. "I just ...wish things had turned out differently."  
  
"Yeah, me too."  
  
Methos' mouth quirked, but quickly returned to a tight, grim line. "This is going to be hard for you to hear, but they were my _brothers._ For a thousand years, we only had each other. Were we all vicious murdering psychopaths? Yes. But in our own way, we loved each other." He closed his eyes, and then opened them, looking beyond the room. "I can still hear the screams, and smell the blood of our victims. And I always will. And I regret that, although I no longer allow the guilt to be all-consuming. But I can also still feel the thrill of the well-laid plan, the adrenaline rush of knowing no one can stand against you, and the closeness of the brotherhood, and part of me regrets its loss as well.  
  
"I told you the truth: I was good at it, and I liked it - all of it. But it is also true that I've changed, that I don't let myself seek that feeling of - of power anymore. I am no longer the Horseman, but the Horseman will always be a part of me. I cannot feel guilt over that anymore, but I do regret it. And I regret what it did to you, and to us.  
  
"I was supposed to kill you, did you realize? To prove myself to Kronos. I was supposed to take your head and bring your sword to him. Instead I tried to leave town. And then you came along, Cassandra's little _chosen one_, not even willing to give me the benefit of the doubt, and I lost control. I only wanted to drive you away, to buy a little time. Perhaps there was a better way to handle it. But the fact remains that I was once a monster, the very sort of person you consider yourself honor-bound to kill, and every time you look at me, you remember that. That is what I regret. I lost my brothers and I lost you. We could continue to let this friendship fester and rot to a gangrenous end, or we could cut cleanly and spare us both."  
  
MacLeod was silent, and Methos closed his eyes again. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I think Adam Pierson has a date with some black ice and a rental car." He started to rise, but MacLeod reached out and put his hand on Methos' arm.  
  
"Wait."  
  
Methos froze. "I'd rather this didn't come to blows, MacLeod."  
  
"I didn't - you can't - I just - _Dammit_ Methos! I *know* that you aren't Death anymore, I realized that once I stopped reacting and started thinking. A Horseman couldn't have loved someone like Alexa like you did. Death wouldn't have spent lifetimes as a doctor. Death wouldn't have stuck his neck out for Joe. Or for me, over and over again, against everything you've ever told me about your philosophy. I may never understand the Horseman, but I do understand that you are more than him. But once I'd realized that, I found that I'd gone and killed another of your friends, your student even," - and ex-lover, he thought, but he couldn't bring himself to say it - "and I thought that any opportunity I had to regain your trust was lost. I should have been a better friend, I should have been more understanding - Keane showed me that - but by the time it became clear to me, then Ahriman appeared and..." he trailed off. Methos was watching him warily, suspicion warring with hope on his face. "Please don't go. I don't want you to go." Don't leave me. "Don't do this."  
  
Methos was silent. MacLeod said, "Hey. Mi casa es su casa, remember?"  
  
Methos looked carefully at him. "Are you sure, Duncan MacLeod? Because I cannot do this over and over again." Mac examined his face, and thought he could see the shadows of thousands of years and a multitude of lives: the scholar, the doctor, the slave, the warrior, the Horseman. He gripped Methos' wrist. "Yes."  
  
"Even with all you don't know about me?" Methos asked bitterly. Oh yes, clearly MacLeod's words on the barge at their last meeting had rankled.  
  
"I am sure. I misspoke; I should have said, I may not know what you have been, but I know who you are. You are my friend. You are Methos. It is enough."  
  
Methos' eyes bore into MacLeod's. Mac felt that those eyes were weighing the balance of his words, like the ancient Egyptians: his heart on a scale, measured against the feather of truth, and a demon waiting to devour it should the balance go against him. A long fingered hand suddenly closed around his wrist, and gripped it tightly. "I am your friend. Truly."  
  
"I am your friend, Methos. Don't doubt it again."  
  
They stayed like that, arms linked, searching each other's faces, and slowly the corners of Methos' mouth unbent, and met an answering smile. They let go. MacLeod stood. Methos leaned back, shaping himself to the contours of the couch, and he slyly smiled up at Mac. "I guess I won't be needing that hotel then."  
  
MacLeod took a shaky breath and felt the tight grip about his heart loosen. He looked over at the window. "Look, it's turned to snow. We'd better get your things before we can't find your car anymore."  
  
  
  
****  
  
  
  
Methos attacked the layer of ice covering his rental car with a window scraper and a lightened heart. So far, so good. He looked across at the younger Immortal, who was briskly and efficiently shovelling the sidewalk. The first river had been forded, and the water had not been as cold as expected. The path ahead was not smooth - it never was, really - but the worst case scenario had been avoided.  
  
He paused in his task, and leaned against the car. He watched white flakes dancing around MacLeod's face and settling on the long dark coat, the dark hair. Methos felt a faint clutching at his heart, and laughed at himself. You old fool, he thought. Take what's offered, and be glad. Besides, you still haven't survived the weekend. But you might. You just might.  
  
  
  
MacLeod looked up as the car door slammed shut, and smiled. The long, lean shape of Methos approached through the swirling snow, carrying a black duffel. "All set?" he asked.  
  
"You realize that it is still snowing."  
  
MacLeod squinted up at the sky. "You know, I do believe you are correct."  
  
"All the bits you've shovelled are getting covered in snow again."  
  
"The wisdom of the ancients never ceases to amaze me." MacLeod grinned. "It's easier to shovel small amounts of snow more frequently than to try and clear all the snow at once at the end of the storm."  
  
"There's this new invention, Mac. It's called a snowblower." Methos hunched his shoulders and huddled in his coat.  
  
MacLeod scattered a small amount of rock salt across the sidewalk. "I'm done, let's go in."  
  
"But you'll be out here again in a few hours."  
  
"Don't worry, I'm not going to ask you to come help me shovel."  
  
Methos' lips quirked. "Just as long as we're clear on that."  
  
  
  
  
****  
  
  
  
MacLeod peered into the gloom around him. A dim light surrounded him, allowing him to see a short ways around him in all directions. He was walking down a road; he could feel it stretching a long distance at his back, and he could see it continuing in front of him until it was swallowed by darkness. He wasn't sure how long he'd been walking, his footsteps echoing hollowly. He didn't know where the road would take him, but he steadily walked along. Shapes loomed on either side of him; pale, crumbling statues. Warriors; a general? Someone in a toga. Was that one holding a papyrus? A number of family groupings, with a single man remaining intact, only fragments of feet and the dust of broken stone to show where the others had been. One figure stood posed with sword in hand, facing fiercely out into the darkness. Another bent its head over manuscript, a quill in hand. He couldn't see their faces.  
  
He stopped abruptly. A tall figure, shadows pooling at his feet, stood ahead in the road, blocking the path. His head was bowed, his back was to MacLeod, but the shape of it, the posture, the lines, tugged at MacLeod's mind. As MacLeod approached cautiously, the faint light he carried with him shone forward and _through_ the man in front of him. The shadows leapt away in a widening beam from the figure's feet, as if they were light bent by a prism. At the end of each shadow, right at the edge of the surrounding gloom, MacLeod could see - shapes.  
  
All the statues he had passed, their figures had come to life, and stood beyond the man in front of him. They all wore the same face.  
  
A man with close-cut hair, dressed like a Roman centurion, fighting with an unseen opponent.  
  
A man in the many layered formal wear of the 18th century, carrying a black bag and with a streak of blood on the white linen shirtfront.  
  
A tonsured man in a black Benedictine habit, a smear of ink on his prodigious nose and gold dust on his fingers.  
  
A man with his shirt laces undone, a long arm wrapped around his companion, their legs entangled, leaning in, his face lit up with delight and unmistakable intent.  
  
Figures from times and places he did not recognize - this one in a loincloth and high-laced sandals, that one naked except for shackles at his wrists.  
  
Two men - circling each other, their eyes locked, entirely focussed on the other. The pair seemed to flicker; in one moment, their hair was long and wild, the shorter of the two with fierce black lines painted on his face, the other's face a stark slash of blue. In the next moment, their hair shortened, their ancient leather battle-gear was replaced with modern black jackets and black jeans. Flicker. Just beyond them, barely visible, two men with wolfish smiles guarded the night. Flicker. The men locked in orbit circled closer, closer, until they each had a sword in one hand and the other hand tangled in their opposite's hair, leaning in for a crushing kiss full of violence and hunger, but never stopping their continual circling.  
  
The figure in front of MacLeod raised his head, and slowly turned around. The man reached out a hand, paused, and withdrew — and the shadows beyond him wavered —  
  
  
  
  
MacLeod sat up in bed. What the hell was that? he thought. Looking around the loft, he could see a glimpse of a pillow and dark tousled hair on the nearest arm of the couch. He smiled to himself. Methos had returned. Finally, finally, it looked like they could hold a conversation without dancing delicately around each other or lashing out. They'd spoken of Bordeaux and of Byron and of brotherhood, and Methos was still here. They'd shared dinner and played chess by the fire, and Methos was still here. He'd gone out to clear the sidewalk of snow before bed (Methos pointedly not offering to help), and when he came back inside, Methos was still here. The sharp-edged words spoken earlier had not severed the wounded friendship, but rather lanced it, allowing festering infection to drain and the true healing process to begin. His subconscious was probably just processing it all — odd, how it had stirred up the mostly-forgotten glimpses of Methos' past from the double Quickening they'd shared in Bordeaux, and from the Quickenings of Caspian and Kronos and Byron.  
  
  
He got up and went to the window, feeling unsettled. In the glow of the streetlamp, he could see that the snow was still falling, a steady progression of small flakes that showed no sign of slowing. He could hear the low rumble-scrape of a snowplow clearing a street somewhere in the neighborhood. He couldn't make out the sidewalk in front of his building; he should go clear it again.  
  
As he crossed the room to get his boots and jacket, he paused at the couch. All those lifetimes carried within one body. The covers had slipped a bit, revealing a pale shoulder and a long, strong arm. The vision of that arm in his dream, embracing a lover, flashed in front of MacLeod's eyes and he hurriedly stepped back.  
  
  
  
Outside, the cold air cut through MacLeod's jacket. He briskly set to shovelling, clearing the thick layer of snow that had built up. He heard the snowplow again, closer this time.  
  
The vision of Methos and Kronos, eternally circling, rose before him. Is that what it was like? he wondered. Forever on the balance between collision and flight? He thought about Byron then, the bright-burning fever-dreams that he seen through the man's Quickening. For all of Methos' claims to only desire a quiet, anonymous life, he certainly seemed to fall in with larger-than-life Immortals. And, he wryly acknowledged, some would label Duncan MacLeod with that description. He paused, and then quickly turned his mind away from that train of thought and any implications.  
  
  
  
MacLeod returned to the loft, to be met by the sight of Methos sitting up tensely on the couch, a wicked-looking stiletto in his hand. "Hey, I live here, remember?" he said instantly, his hands spread wide, palms up. Methos relaxed and the stiletto vanished somewhere. "Jumpy, aren't we?" Where had he put the knife? Under the pillow? He couldn't be keeping it in his boxer shorts, could he?  
  
"Sorry, Mac — you woke me up." Methos rubbed his face sleepily and glanced at the still-dark sky. "What the hell are you doing awake?" He paused and narrowed his eyes. "Were you _shovelling snow_?" At the slightly sheepish look on MacLeod's face, Methos smiled, a grin that grew from one corner of his mouth and slowly crinkled his face in lines of merriment. "Snowblower, Mac. Look into it." He burrowed back into the couch and pulled the blankets up over his shoulders.  
  
The next morning, the snow was still determinedly burying the world outside MacLeod's window. MacLeod started a pot of coffee, tiptoeing around the kitchen in that exaggerated silence when a guest is sleeping and every scrape of a utensil, every closing of a cabinet echoes in the house like thunder. He retreated to the dojo downstairs for his morning exercise.  
  
  
  
He returned to the kitchen to find Methos hanging up a cell phone with a sigh of disgust.  
  
"Bad news?"  
  
"It looks like I will be darkening your doorstep a little while longer. The airport's closed."  
  
MacLeod's heart leapt. "You're welcome here as long as you wish, Methos."  
  
Methos eyed him suspiciously. "Be careful, Mac, I might even hold you to that."  
  
Mac grinned and rolled his eyes. "So, what's for breakfast?"  
  
"Hmmm. Coffee, apparently. Hey, I'm the guest here, remember?"  
  
  
  
  
In spite of his Immortal memory, MacLeod felt he had forgotten that one could experience peace in the company of Methos. It was the peace of the unstable equilibrium, the ball perfectly balanced at the top of a hill that could at any moment begin to roll down again like Sisyphus' rock, but was nonetheless at rest. In the morning, MacLeod caught up on business matters via phone and internet, and Methos took himself downstairs to the dojo (to get out the last of the cramps from the long flights of the previous day, he said - Adam Pierson could not afford First Class) and then perused MacLeod's bookshelves. When MacLeod emerged from the fog of accounting that had enveloped him, he found the older man sniggering at the descriptions in a book of Mesopotamian art and archaeology.  
  
That afternoon, they read books by the fire in quiet companionship as the snow continued to fall. Once the cold light from the window began to turn grey, MacLeod broke out the chess board and the Scotch. As they conversed over the game, the peace continued to hold.  
  
After dinner - a stew prepared that morning that had simmered gently throughout the day - the chess match lagged and the conversation grew. MacLeod found himself engaged in a discussion of Ancient Mesopotamia and the nature of religious tolerance. Methos had been reminiscing.  
  
"Each city-state had its own gods, but we didn't argue much over religion, you know. You always respected the local gods. It was unthinkable to doubt their existence. There certainly was no problem about religion when we began to trade with Egypt. I didn't really start to question their existence until I met another Immortal who had been set up as the living god of the local township, but after that I started to doubt all of them... however, politics and self-preservation dictated that I continue to follow all the correct rituals."  
  
MacLeod grinned. "An Immortal was a worshipped as a god?"  
  
"It happened so many times in those days, and even much later, even if you didn't stick around to be on the receiving end of all that worship." He stared into the fire. "You know, you're fighting alongside sea-pirates in southern Anatolia, and they see you die and reanimate, and then a thousand years later you join the Roman army and find yourself an initiate in a cult based around - yourself."  
  
MacLeod stared at him in shock. He searched his memory. "Mithras?"  
  
Methos laughed. "I don't know where the nonsense about the bull and the sun came from." MacLeod slowly shook his head in amazement. "Oh, come on, Mac. Think of it! You've been having a deity crash on your couch all these years!"  
  
"And mooching my beer. Wait a minute - Mithras was also part of Zoroastrianism, wasn't he?"  
  
Methos sobered. "You know how a major religion grows and engulfs the local deities. Take St. Bridget. But yes, Ahriman was a god of darkness who was adopted by Zoroastrianism. Actually became my counterpart, even." He looked up, all trace of humor gone, eyes dark with memory. "I owe you an apology, Mac. It never occurred to me that Ahriman could be real. I thought he was a legend built up around an Immortal, like me."  
  
MacLeod was silent. Even after all his efforts, his hard-won inner peace that he clung to tooth and nail, the thought of Ahriman and all that entailed was like a blow to his stomach. After a moment, Methos cleared his throat  
  
“At least that time, I was able to remain relatively anonymous. When your worshippers require you to take a more, let us say, _active_ role in the community, things can become very complicated.”  
  
“Active?”  
  
Methos squinted into his glass. “Sometimes, being the living embodiment of the local god can be a tough gig. It isn’t all virgins and burnt offerings and casks of gold, you know. Sometimes your blood is required to water the fields in a poor harvest, or to placate an enemy army.”  
  
MacLeod stared at him.  
  
“After a while, you start to buy into it. You start to believe almost that you really _are_ divine — you're Immortal, aren’t you? You're giving them your blood — it seems only right that you are worshipped, that you have absolute obedience in all things. After all, your good will is all that stands between your worshippers and certain _destruction._”  
  
Something had changed in Methos’ face — it seemed more remote, the bones under the skin more pronounced, all angles and cold marble. His eyes were glittering stones. His voice deepened and the last word came out harshly. MacLeod felt a chill creeping in with the shadows.  
  
“And slowly the supplications of your worshippers no longer sound like those of your beloved children, but become the harsh croakings of carrion birds, despicable and vile. And then a little voice starts whispering in the back of your mind: Why are you shackled to these mortal weaklings when all the world should be at your feet? Why should you allow _them_ to shed your blood for their own petty, insignificant lives? They’re only going to die anyway.”  
  
His voice rang out, cold and snarling, and he stopped abruptly. The room was still; MacLeod was unable to even breathe. Methos shook himself, and seemed to dwindle back into just a man slumped on a couch. He looked over apologetically. “In short, I became addicted to a certain kind of power. A power that I was able to receive in abundance in the company of my brothers.” He drained his glass in one draught. “And, impressed as I am by your forbearance of my past misadventures — and your unwillingness to be diverted onto another topics — I do not choose to revisit these memories any more tonight.”  
  
“But — "  
  
“No.” Cold, final. MacLeod could sense the walls going back up, and he beat a strategic retreat lest that vicious tongue was loosed and drew blood.  
  
“Well, no wonder, if you heard voices.”  
  
_“What??”_  
  
“You said you heard voices. That explains a lot, old man.”  
  
“MacLeod —" Methos sounded like he was addressing an exasperating and rather dimwitted child.  
  
“All of the ancient Immortals seem to be insane in some way or another. You were bound to be no different. Voices, huh? You should get that looked into.”  
  
They stared at each other, and finally Methos broke into a rueful laugh. “I can’t believe we’re having this conversation,” he muttered.  
  
MacLeod cocked his head at the older man. “You thought that by now, I’d have thrown a righteous snit and thrown you out in disgust.”  
  
“Well, yes,” admitted Methos.  
  
“I keep telling you, Methos, I’ve finally had time to think, to process things, and I’m adapting. I’m just a little slow at times.”  
  
“You said it,” murmered Methos slyly.  
  
“Hmpf.” MacLeod got up to refill their drinks with a smile.  
  
  
  
  
***************  
  
  
  
The next morning dawned bright and clear. The sun reflected off the snow like a knife. The snowplows had continued their lumbering work through the night, and the airport had reopened.  
  
Methos zipped shut the duffel bag. He stood and looked down at MacLeod, who was sitting on the couch, staring into the fire.  
  
"What's wrong, Mac?" the voice was unexpectedly gentle.  
  
"I — " MacLeod laughed wryly and tried again. "I spent a good part of this weekend trying to keep you from going out that door, because I knew that if you did, I wouldn't see you again. And now you have to go, and part of me wonders — " he broke off.  
  
Methos stood very still, his back to the fire. MacLeod looked up into his face, but the face of the eldest Immortal was unreadable, shadowed. Suddenly, Methos bent down and opened the duffel. He reached inside, digging around a little, and pulled out two passports. He handed one to MacLeod, who opened it and saw it was for Adam Pierson, citizen of the United Kingdom. MacLeod looked up.  
  
  
Methos was holding up the second passport. He gazed at MacLeod a long moment, and then deliberately, slowly, he turned and threw the second passport into the fire. MacLeod stared in fascination, watching the flames turn colors from the inks as the passport was consumed. Then Methos was crouching in front of him, gripping his arms, leaning in. He rested his forehead against MacLeod's, and MacLeod's universe was contained within the hazel eyes boring into his, compelling him to listen, to believe.  
  
"I will be back, Duncan. Soon. I promise."  
  
"I've missed you." MacLeod could only whisper. The hands on his arms tightened.  
  
"I promise."  
  
"Two years."  
  
"Not this time. I promise. And I don't make this promise lightly."  
  
"All right." MacLeod slowly reached up a hand and cupped it around the back of Methos' neck. Methos' hair was softer than MacLeod expected, and he found himself wishing to run his fingers through it. "I'll hold you to that."  
  
  
They stayed like that, one man sitting and one man crouching, each intent on the other, until MacLeod drew a shaky breath, and smiled. They let go and leaned back. Methos grinned impishly. "I might even let you know before I show up on your doorstop next time."  
  
MacLeod laughed. "What, so I can make sure I've stocked up on beer?" He handed over Adam Pierson's passport. They stood up, and moved to the door, Methos slinging the duffel over his shoulder.  
  
"Only the finest of brews for your guests. Where's that famous Celtic hospitality?"  
  
"I'll make sure to have a bowl of water so you can wash the dust of the road from your feet, my friend."  
  
  
  
  
******  
  
  
The days passed. As the thunderous silence from his mailbox, from his email, from his phone continued, MacLeod tried to keep a hold of the warm tendrils of hope, feeding them with the memory of long fingers clasped on his arms, of the ancient soul behind commanding eyes, of the feel of soft hair underneath his hand. But as the long silence grew, the memories seemed to grow dust and his hope began to wither.  
  
  
  
The envelope arrived about three months later. The white petals of the cherry trees danced on the wind as MacLeod parked his car. For a moment, they looked like snowflakes swirling down. He brushed stray petals off his coat before picking up his mail and walking to his door. The return address was smeared, but the postage stamp was from France. MacLeod opened it to find a folded pamphlet.  
  
  
  
It appeared to be an interdepartmental newsletter from the University of Seacouver. MacLeod turned a page, and froze.  
  
  
"New Faculty Member Joins the Classical Languages Department.  
  
"We are very pleased to welcome Dr. Adam Pierson to the Classical Languages department. Dr. Pierson is a specialist in ..."  
  
  
A smile spread slowly across Duncan MacLeod's face, a bubbling spring of happiness rising within him, washing away the last dusty remnants of loneliness and leaving behind the warming glow of anticipation.


End file.
